Below ground, deep beneath the slate mountain, with only a candle for light. Hacking, pounding at the rock for hours on end, breathing the dust that cakes lungs and steals air. Life expectancy little over forty and all for a few pence a day. It was a living. It was a life. But not much of one.
We've been to a Welsh slate mine today and learned about working conditions in the 1860s. I'll have more respect for my roof from now on.